The longer she thought, the more bewildered she grew.
There seemed no analogy that she knew. Here was
a unique thing, and she climbed to her bedroom and
stared at the stars.
Four
John Taylor had written to his sister. He wanted
information, very definite information, about Tooms
County cotton; about its stores, its people—especially
its people. He propounded a dozen questions, sharp,
searching questions, and he wanted the answers tomorrow.
Impossible! thought Miss Taylor. He had calculated
on her getting this letter yesterday, forgetting that
their mail was fetched once a day from the town, four
miles away. Then, too, she did not know all these
matters and knew no one who did. Did John think
she had nothing else to do? And sighing at the
thought of to-morrow’s drudgery, she determined
to consult Miss Smith in the morning.
Miss Smith suggested a drive to town—Bles
could take her in the top-buggy after school—and
she could consult some of the merchants and business
men. She could then write her letter and mail
it there; it would be but a day or so late getting
to New York.
“Of course,” said Miss Smith drily, slowly
folding her napkin, “of course, the only people
here are the Cresswells.”
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Taylor invitingly.
There was an allurement about this all-pervasive name;
it held her by a growing fascination and she was anxious
for the older woman to amplify. Miss Smith, however,
remained provokingly silent, so Miss Taylor essayed
further.
“What sort of people are the Cresswells?”
she asked.
“The old man’s a fool; the young one a
rascal; the girl a ninny,” was Miss Smith’s
succinct and acid classification of the county’s
first family; adding, as she rose, “but they
own us body and soul.” She hurried out
of the dining-room without further remark. Miss
Smith was more patient with black folk than with white.
The sun was hanging just above the tallest trees of
the swamp when Miss Taylor, weary with the day’s
work, climbed into the buggy beside Bles. They
wheeled comfortably down the road, leaving the sombre
swamp, with its black-green, to the right, and heading
toward the golden-green of waving cotton fields.
Miss Taylor lay back, listlessly, and drank the soft
warm air of the languorous Spring. She thought
of the golden sheen of the cotton, and the cold March
winds of New England; of her brother who apparently
noted nothing of leaves and winds and seasons; and
of the mighty Cresswells whom Miss Smith so evidently
disliked. Suddenly she became aware of her long
silence and the silence of the boy.
“Bles,” she began didactically, “where
are you from?”
He glanced across at her and answered shortly:
“Georgia, ma’am,” and was silent.
The girl tried again.
“Georgia is a large State,”—tentatively.
